Chapter 22
After my not-so-graceful exit from the barn yesterday, I hid in my room and didn’t come out until Ben went to bed. Embarrassed doesn’t begin to cover it.
But it’s not just that. I also feel weirdly deflated—like I let myself believe something I had no business believing.
After hearing Holden play last night, it was easy to buy into Constance’s feelings theory.
And I guess I liked the idea of it. It never even crossed my mind that a song could just be a song.
Which is ridiculous considering “Maggie May” is a guitar player’s rite of passage, not some big romantic ballad.
Actually, it’s about as unromantic as it gets.
I should be happy he wasn’t playing it for me.
I should be…
Ugh.
I just want to crawl back in bed and stay there until filming wraps. But instead, I’m at the carriage house door at 5:40 a.m. facing the literal music.
Holden answers before I can knock. He’s in jeans, a faded black Polo tee, and those same beat-up high-tops. His hair’s damp, like he just took a towel to it, face clean-shaven, eyes giving nothing away.
“I brought breakfast,” I say, my nose scrunching in apology. “And no, I didn’t make it.”
His lips twitch, just barely, and he steps aside, opening the door wider. “Lucy’s?”
“Ben.” I pass him a thermos, then set a plate of ham biscuits on the table beside the empty vase.
Today would’ve been a good day to bring those flowers.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, grabbing a blue ceramic mug from the kitchenette. “You want some?”
“Thanks, but I’m good.”
Holden’s bed is actually made. Like, made-made. A backpack sits on top, a gray hoodie spilling out. I wonder if he misses the one he lent me. The one I slept in again last night.
“You want to sit?” He sinks into a chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“I don’t want to keep you.”
“You’re not.” His eyes catch mine over the top of his cup. “I won’t bite. Promise.”
“Okay…um, thanks.” I perch on the edge of a chair, back straight and hands folded in my lap like I’m waiting outside the principal’s office.
“Wasn’t sure I’d see you today.”
“I wasn’t sure you wanted to.”
“I always want to, Maggie.”
Warmth creeps into my cheeks. It’s getting harder to reconcile this Holden with the one from last week. When did he get so easy? So…charming?
I shift in my seat. “When do you have to be there?”
“Six thirty.” He checks his phone, then peels back the foil on the plate, the savory scent of fried ham wafting up as he pulls out a biscuit. “Ben must’ve gotten up obscenely early to do this. Tell him thanks.”
“He couldn’t sleep,” I say, twisting my sweater’s tie around my finger. “He does that. I once woke up to coq au vin because he had a craving.”
Holden arches a brow, his hand paused halfway to his mouth. “Guess he doesn’t do cereal.”
The room goes quiet, just the drone of the ceiling fan and the faint squeak of Holden’s chair as he leans forward to eat, but somehow even that feels loud.
I fiddle with my necklace. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I think I was just tired.”
Because I stayed up most of the night swooning over a song you weren’t actually playing for me.
He sets his mug down with a soft clink. “Maggie, you were given a handful of days to turn an arrogant jackass with two left feet into something resembling a dancer. And you succeeded.” He reaches across the table for my hand, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles.
Something stirs in my chest. The gesture feels strangely intimate, especially after yesterday. Holden must think so too, the way he leans back—too quickly—taking his hand with him.
“And we both know I haven’t been the easiest guy to work with,” he says, as if the last ten seconds didn’t happen.
“But I shouldn’t have blown up at you. I completely lost my cool.” Again. My mind jumps back to that first day at the creek. At least I didn’t dump water on him this time.
“I’d say you were due.” He pops the last bite of his biscuit into his mouth and pushes back from the table. “You’re going today, right?”
His gaze sweeps over me, taking in the jeans that fit tighter than I’d like before landing on my boots, already showing the miles I’ve put on them recently.
“Yeah, um, I told Artie I’d be there.”
“Good,” he says. “I’ll drive.”
His casual tone shouldn’t affect me, but it absolutely does. I was the jackass yesterday. Why is he letting me off so easy today?
He puts the rest of the biscuits in the fridge, then collects his backpack off the bed and slings it over his shoulder. I still haven’t moved.
His mouth quirks. “If you think you’ll get bored…”
“I won’t get bored.”
“That’s my girl,” he says like it’s nothing—and I’m sure it is nothing—but my breath quickens all the same.
Blessed cool air rushes in as I open the door. I pull my sweater closed.
Holden grabs his keys off the hook, and we step out.
It’s still dark when we leave the B&B, but a few miles down the farm-to-market road toward town, a soft light glows ahead, rising over the cedars like early dawn.
“Wow.” My mouth falls open.
Holden chuckles beside me in the driver’s seat. “Just wait.”
It flares brighter the closer we get, and by the time we round the corner onto Fisher Springs Road, the dance hall blazes to life, white lights cutting through the haze and throwing sharp shadows across the gravel.
“I don’t usually drive myself to set, so I’m not a hundred percent sure where to go,” Holden admits as we pass.
The dance hall’s been transformed with fresh paint and string lights draped along the eaves. A neon sign flashes Cody’s Icehouse, and my stomach does a little fangirl flip. They kept the name from the book.
In front of the entrance, a couple rows of cars and pickups—various makes and models—are parked like their owners just popped in for the night.
Props for the set, I assume, because beyond them, the parking lot is chaos.
Trailers, a few big trucks, and those impossibly bright lights crowd the gravel while people dart between them.
I roll down my window, the hum of a generator and the smell of diesel drifting in.
It reminds me of the county fair, if the county fair had a Hollywood budget.
“There,” Holden says, jutting his chin toward a Cast & Crew sign at the far end.
We turn into a makeshift lot, where someone waves us into a parking spot. Holden cuts the engine and glances over at me. “It can be a little overwhelming, but you’ll get used to it.”
I nod. This might be a lot overwhelming.
The moment we step out of the truck, a guy in a headset jogs over. A PA, maybe?
“Morning, Mr. Shaw. Here’s your call sheet, pass, and key. Trailer’s around back, second on the left. Crafty’s in that blue tent behind me. Wardrobe and makeup are in the dressing room.”
Holden scans the page he was given. “Wait. The Tripp-Katie kiss wasn’t supposed to be today.”
My throat goes dry. I knew there’d be a dance hall kiss, but watching it in the film and watching it being filmed are two different things.
“They swapped it in last night,” the PA says. “It’s a quick scene, so Artie wanted to knock it out early. Need anything else?”
“Can I get a spare key for my trailer?”
The PA hesitates just long enough for it to feel noticeable, then plucks another one from his key ring and hands it over.
Holden presses it into my palm. “So you have a place to go if we get separated.”
And a place to disappear during that kiss.
We wind through a maze of cables while more people in headsets dart past, moving with a quiet urgency I’ve never seen before. Near the row of trailers, where it’s especially congested, Holden reaches back and takes my hand, sending my already rapid heartbeat into overdrive.
I glance around, nerves buzzing, but everyone’s too busy to notice. Then I spot Gabrielle Martin stepping out of her trailer onto a small metal platform, costume on, hair pinned, lip gloss glinting in the light.
I can only stare. She meets my gaze and smiles, a faint, knowing smile that makes my pulse skip.
“Good morning, Holden,” she says, though her eyes stay on me. “You see the change?”
He lets go of my hand and grins up at her, and the fact that he does both in the same breath makes my chest go heavy. “I did, so stay away from those garlic bagels, will ya?”
He’s amused, completely unfazed by the schedule change. Unlike me.
Gabrielle giggles. Giggles. “And you with the coffee breath. So gross.” She leans over the railing, closer to me. “Hi, I’m Gabi.”
“Maggie,” I say, hugging my sweater tighter around me. “Big fan. Loved you in Glass Doll.”
Holden’s head whips around. “Seriously? You couldn’t name a single movie I’ve done.”
I shrug, and Gabrielle—Gabi cackles.
“I like her,” she says.
Holden rolls his eyes, then reaches for my hand again—just to lead me up three very uncongested steps to his trailer. Gabi notices, and I don’t miss the barely there smirk that flickers across her face, so quick that if I weren’t still a little starstruck, I might’ve missed it.
“See you on set,” he calls over to her, then unlocks the door to let us inside.
Holden’s trailer is smaller and rougher than I expected, with worn floors and an olive-green couch and coffee table that’ve seen better days. A kitchenette sits on one side, while a narrow closet and vanity occupy the other.
“Does Gabrielle’s trailer look like this?”
He laughs. “I’m sure it did. Before she had her PA fix it up.”
“You might’ve been better off staying at the lodge.”
“I’m pretty happy where I’m at.” His flirty smile sends a ripple through me, one I pretend not to feel.
I sit at the vanity, our eyes catching in the mirror. “So what now?”
“Hair and makeup. Set time’s eight in the dance hall, but here.” He grabs his lanyard off the coffee table and hangs it around my neck. “You can use this to get in whenever you’re ready.”
“Don’t you need it?”
He grins. “I’m a megastar, remember?”
No, actually. It’s surprisingly easy to forget.
“Well, good luck. I mean, break a leg.”